


Espionage and Other Affairs of the Heart

by Empirate



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, CIA, M/M, Spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3658704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empirate/pseuds/Empirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Alfred F. Jones, codename Eagle 5, begins to take a distinctly unprofessional interest in his huffy British handler. The smart thing to do would be to focus on his job and ignore his feelings until they pass. </p><p>No one ever said intelligence officers were chosen for their intelligence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Last Supper

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by rocket/hakuku's amazing fanart here: http://rockets.tumblr.com/post/19354206528.
> 
> Disclaimer: I know nothing about how intelligence agencies actually work. Everything I think I know comes from movies and Wikipedia.
> 
>  **NEW!** I made a playlist for this fic. You can listen to it here: http://8tracks.com/tempest27/code-names-and-spy-games

Alfred had been working this mission for months, and while he certainly couldn't object to the cushy sojourn in Tuscany, he was ready to go home. He'd sent enough evidence back to Langley to put these drug smugglers (and occasional human traffickers, when they were running in the red) behind bars for life. He, however, and Langley delightfully agreed with him on this point, was of the opinion that jail was too good for these sick bastards. Besides, the cartel had so many Italian politicians in its pocket that its members were guaranteed far more than a fair trial if they were ever taken to court. So Alfred had gathered just enough evidence against them to authorize a kill order.

He pushed the empty dinner cart down the passageway to the cellar where the head honchos were discussing "business strategy" over fine wine and a home-cooked Italian meal. _Does it still count as home cooking if you have your resident chef prepare it?_ Alfred wondered. He found he rather cared about these things now, as his cover for this mission was as the villa's sous chef, and he'd actually had to learn to cook damn well to get the job.

The cart trundled over the bricks, and Alfred thought about what was inside.

He reached the arched wooden doors of the wine cellar/private dining room and knocked three times. The sound resounded hollowly and the soft voices from inside fell and were silent. "Angelo?" a gruff, Italian voice called out. "Have you brought us dinner?"

" _Sì, signore,_ " Alfred called back through the door.

The doors were opened by two men, and Alfred pushed the cart inside.

"What has the chef prepared for us tonight?" the man at the head of the table, the head head honcho (as Alfred called him), asked.

"Your last supper," Alfred muttered.

Confusion rippled around the table and several hands went for guns in waist bands, but not before Alfred had whipped the cover off of the silver serving dish to reveal two shiny, black machine guns. He took them up and brought them, firing, round in an arc around the table, yelling "YIPPEE KI-YAY MOTHAFUCKAS!!!" over the sound of the guns.

When all was quiet, a voice broke, static-y, over Alfred's earpiece.

"God, you are such a Yank. Are all of the targets eliminated?"

"Yup!" Alfred cheerily replied to the room of dead bodies slowly mingling their blood with the wine splashed across the floor. "Y'know, that word always sounded kinda dirty to me. Like...what _exactly_ am I supposed to be yanking?"

Alfred was pretty sure the sounds that followed were those of his handler spitting his tea all over his keyboard.

"It's short for Yankee, like Yankee Doodle," his handler informed him once he had regained his composure. "And did you know, it was actually British soldiers who came up with it to make fun of the Americans during the Revolutionary War? It was you who turned it into a bloody patriotic anthem."

"Well, I didn't _personally_ ," Alfred said, taking another item out of the dinner cart.

"Your country. The two are much the same in our line of work."

Alfred pulled the pin from the grenade, tossed it into the wine cellar, slammed the doors shut and began to run back up the passage. "You got that right." He made it out of the passage just before the alcohol-fueled explosion turned it into an inferno. "God bless America."


	2. Headquarters

Okay, so Alfred F. Jones wasn’t always the most subtle secret agent in the CIA, but no one could argue with his results. And his “overenthusiastic” methods, as his handler called them, were always carefully calculated. At the Italian villa, the local officials would do his cleaning up for him. They were experts at sweeping dirty business under the rug, especially when investigations might come too close to home. And yet, rumors were sure to spread, spreading, at the same time, a clear warning to anyone who might consider stepping into the shoes of the old cartel. 

Alfred’s utter contentment at stepping off the plane and back onto American soil was short-lived when he remembered that he was due in for his yearly psych test the next day, which meant he would be right back on a plane to Virginia in the morning. Tonight he would spend in his DC flat writing up his report. 

Alfred loved his job, but part of the reason he’d taken it was to avoid just the sort of bloated, bureaucratic hell that was Headquarters. (The other part was that he was an old-fashioned, die-hard (no pun intended) patriot at heart, no matter how uncool that was nowadays.) However, said bureaucratic hell performed an important double function. First, even Alfred would admit that bureaucracy was actually good for a couple of things. Second, and more important, HQ’s inscrutable operations formed an impenetrable cover for the CIA’s deadly efficiency at its inner levels. 

Thanks to his various handlers over the years, Alfred had almost never had to deal with HQ after he’d been cleared for work in the field, but unfortunately, his handler couldn’t take his psych test for him. He finished typing up his report, encrypted it, and sent it off to his handler, whose email address was a frustratingly uninformative string of alphanumeric characters, randomly regenerated at the end of every month. Employee bonding was not high on the CIA’s list of priorities. Alfred trusted his handler with his life almost every day, and he didn’t even know the guy’s name. 

He settled down to sleep in his spartan apartment, the walls adorned with a single retro Captain America poster, an extensive hoard of action movies piled in one corner next to the TV, and an American flag drifting in the night breeze out over his balcony. He fell asleep listing the names of all of the English kings he could remember. 

~

Even with his high-clearance badge and codes, it took Alfred a good thirty minutes to get through Langley’s security to its central control rooms. He was met by his psychiatrist at the other end, and she assured him that, if she knew him at all, and she knew him _well_ , this should be a short engagement. Alfred’s nearly constant sunny disposition in such a dark, difficult and dangerous job had puzzled her (and everyone else) at first, but she could diagnose him with nothing but well-groundedness and persistent optimism. 

As he followed Dr. Madison across the large control room to her office deeper inside the building, his eyes were drawn to one of the analysts standing in front of a computer terminal at the end of the room. He was about half a head shorter than Alfred with blonde hair, and he was looking from the computer screen to the files in his hand as if he had discovered a new physical anomaly of the universe and was not particularly pleased about the fact. He was dressed in a gunmetal grey suit and a tie of a color that Alfred was pretty sure auto enthusiasts would call British Racing Green. Whatever the color was, it set off the man’s eyes almost as well as those tailored pants set off his ass. 

As he drew nearer he considered saying hi and giving the man one of his winning smiles when he recognized just such a smile on the man’s computer screen. His own ID photo was grinning back at him at the top of one of the documents the man had open, and Alfred realized with hot-cold shock that it was his mission report from the night before. And the only person who had access to that report was his handler. 

Well, shit. Alfred would be lying if he said he hadn’t _thought_ about what his handler looked like before, and with only a voice to work with (and a pretty sexy one, when he wasn't using it to yell or swear at Alfred with increasingly vulgar British slang), his imagination had run a little wild. But never had he pictured someone so…arresting. He’d never thought he’d actually see the guy! 

He hurried to catch up to his psychiatrist as she turned the corner, and she invited him into her office a little ways down the hall. She told him to take a seat while she retrieved his file from the cabinets in the other room, and he sat, fidgeting, on the couch across from her empty chair and waited. His heart was pounding, and he realized his palms were starting to get sweaty. The more he tried to not think about…he-who-must-not-be-named-and-couldn’t-be-named-even-if-Alfred-wanted-to-because-he-didn’t- _know_ -his-name, the more he thought about him. 

When Dr. Madison reentered the room, Alfred started and looked up at her with wide eyes that must have looked as guilty as some of the criminals he took down for the Agency. 

Dr. Madison looked him over slowly, sat down, took out a pencil and notebook, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Before he could stop himself, Alfred was considering whether it was some kind of  conflict of interest if an agent wanted to jump his handler. He came to the (perhaps optimistic) conclusion that that would only be the case if said handler did not return said agent’s interest. 


	3. Spy vs. Spy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the lovely fanart that inspired this piece is by rockets, found here: http://rockets.tumblr.com/post/19354206528.

His conversation with Dr. Madison was one of the most tense and uncomfortable conversations of his life, and it was his job to lie to people. He was good at it. But it was Dr. Madison’s job to get the truth out of people whose job it was to lie to people, and she was also very good at what she did. 

In the end, Alfred thought she was at least mostly satisfied with his excuse of jet lag on top of the whole “I kill and lie to people for a living” thing finally starting to get to him a little. Everyone always told him it would only be a matter of time, after all. 

He walked out of her office with a copy of her report declaring him fit for duty, and willed himself not to shake. What faced him back out in that control room was quite possibly scarier than what he had just been through in the office behind him. But worse was the idea of just walking right out the door without saying a thing. This might be his only chance to talk to the guy face-to-face, and he knew for a fact that now that he’d actually seen his mysterious handler, he wouldn’t be able to put him out of his mind. Not least because his stupid, sexy voice would continue to talk Alfred’s ear off every day until he really did need a psychiatrist. 

Alfred’s personal philosophy was to seize every opportunity in life so that hopefully on the day he died, which could be any day with his job, he wouldn’t have any regrets. So really, he would be going against his principles if he _didn’t_ talk to his cute handler. Which was why his heart fell when he walked back out into the control room to see that the terminal his handler had previously occupied now stood vacant, and the man was nowhere to be seen. Still, Alfred walked over to the computer terminal, inclined to linger for as long as he could get away with in case he returned. 

The first thing he noticed was a still-steaming mug of Earl Grey on the desk. The man should really learn not to keep beverages in such close proximity to computers. (Come to think of it, the keyboard on this particular computer looked a good deal newer than those of its neighbors.) But that aside, surely he wasn’t the type to let his tea get cold? His handler drank so much tea that sometimes Alfred thought his blood must be saturated with the stuff. Now Alfred was thinking that tea must be what his mouth would taste like. Bad Alfred. 

“Can I help you?”

Alfred, his instincts already on high alert, managed not to jump, and in fact, managed to turn and face the blonde-haired, green-eyed man behind him with a rather casual air. The haughty but oh-so-smooth, accented voice confirmed it – this man was definitely his primary handler. 

He grinned. “So you’re the sexy voice in my head.” Had he meant to say that aloud?

The man didn’t miss a beat. He was, after all, used to Alfred saying strange and stupid things with incredible frequency. (Though he did make a point of switching off the inline headset he was wearing.) 

“You should see a psychiatrist if you’re hearing voices.”

 

 

 

[ ](http://rockets.tumblr.com/post/19354206528)

“Just did!” Alfred waved Dr. Madison’s report. “Totally sane.”

“I often wonder about the good doctor’s conclusions,” the man said. “So…you’re the obnoxious Y—American.”

“I hate to break it to ya, but you’re in America now,” Alfred said, unfazed. “We’re everywhere.”

“Oh no, you are something quite unique.”

“Thanks!” Alfred said. This was just like how one of their conversations in the field would begin when Alfred was hiding out somewhere killing time until he could make his move. Initially his handler would tell him to keep the channel clear, but Alfred could easily draw him into some dumb argument or another. Talking to him now was just as easy, falling into long-established rhythms. 

“That…wasn’t a compliment. At any rate, how did you recognise me?”

“Well I _am_ a spy.”

“I am well aware. The question stands.”

Alfred sighed. “I didn’t recognize you, I recognized me. I saw my ID photo at the top of my mission report when you had it up on your screen earlier.”

“I see.”

“My methods aren’t as impressive when I have to explain them,” Alfred pouted. 

“It is my job to know your methods, and I assure you, they are always, at least, impressive. The nature of the impression is a different issue entirely.”

Alfred laughed sheepishly. “Sorry you got stuck with me. I tend to put my handlers through a lot.”

“It has certainly been an adventure,” the man agreed, “but a little adventure is something I’m not entirely averse to.”

Alfred beamed. “So whatcha workin’ on?" 

His handler gave him a long-suffering look. “Do I really need to tell you that it’s classified?”

“Oh, haha. Right.”

“Speaking of my work, however, I really must get back to it. It was lovely meeting you, but you should forget this encounter ever happened. You’re not supposed to be able to identify me.”

Wait, no, this was ending way too fast! Alfred still didn’t know anything more about his handler than he had at the start of their conversation, and if he left now, he may never get a second chance!

“By the way,” his handler said, “you may want to hurry if you hope to catch your 3:30 flight. I hear there’s a storm coming in. It might be the last one.”

Alfred looked at his watch and saw that it was already 2:45. “Shit!” he exclaimed, turning a few heads as he rushed out the door. He hailed a taxi manically enough that the driver that stopped to pick him up immediately put up the screen between them.

It was only while he was in the cab that he realized that if his handler had known his flight times, he must have known he was coming into Headquarters today. He had probably even known Alfred’s appointment time. Who was he kidding, of course he had known Alfred’s appointment time, it was his job to know where his agents were at all times. So then…had he had Alfred’s mission report open on purpose? Had Alfred just been beaten at his own game, without even knowing he was playing? 

For some reason, the thought made him smile. 

The smile vanished when he got to the air port and his watch informed him it was 3:35. 


	4. Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe me if I told you that when I had this story in mind it was supposed to be somewhat serious?

The news playing in the air port kept displaying the banner, “VIRGINIA’S STORM OF THE CENTURY” across the bottom of the screen. All the flights after 3:30 were listed as CANCELLED. Alfred was getting to the point where if he saw any more helpful all-caps notifications, he was going to shoot something. 

He stepped outside to get some air and re-strategize. The sky was already choked by dark clouds, the wind had picked up, and it was supposed to start dumping snow this evening. An interesting idea suggested itself, and he was getting out his phone and typing up an email before he really thought about what he was doing. 

        >>Dear Mysterious Keysmash,  
        >>You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? Well since you know  
        >>everything, you should be able to give me the name of a good motel  
        >>in Langley, right? Preferably one that gives you toothpaste.  
        >> \- Eagle 5

The response was almost immediate.

        <<This is a secure, official server. Don’t you have Google?

 Alfred smiled as he sent back,

        >>Secure means no one’s reading it. And I trust your judgment more.   
        >>You always put me up in nice places on missions. Plus you must  
        >>have some personal experience. Where do you usually stay?

        <<I don’t stay anywhere. I live here.

        >>. . .   
        >>Do you have an extra room?

This time his handler’s response time was close to two minutes.

        <<It is likely that the better motels will be booked due to the storm. And   
        <<you are my responsibility. So you are welcome to my spare room until   
        <<the storm passes or until we find you more suitable accommodations.  


        >>Best handler ever! How do I get there?

        <<I’ll pick you up at the air port around 6.00.  
        <<I’m sure you can kill a few hours.

        >>Fiiine. One more question. Can I borrow a toothbrush?

His handler did not seem to think his last message deserved a response, and Alfred was left to browse the small electronics stand and the smaller book stand no less than twenty times each, taking an occasional break to consume packages of gummis and chips from the news sellers.  

A black BMW pulled up to the curb outside at precisely 6:00 pm. It flashed its lights in Morse Code to catch Alfred’s attention: _Hello helpless. Get in._

Alfred had to stop himself from sprinting. “Oh thank god you’re here,” he exhaled, somehow swinging the door open, dropping into the passenger seat and pulling the door closed all in one motion. “I was _so bored_. And I’m not helpless!”

“My apologies, Morse is a rather limited mode of communication. What I meant was, you are helpless without _me_ ,” his handler said, pulling away from the curb and out into traffic. “And you’ve done multi-day stake-outs on numerous occasions, how were you bored after two hours in an air port?” 

“Stake-outs are exciting,” Alfred grumbled. “You never know what’s gonna happen. And shit can go down in air ports too, but it’s not like I _want_ that to happen. Plus on stake-outs I at least bring my Gameboy or something.”

His handler sighed. “You could’ve bought a book.”

Alfred looked sideways at him skeptically. “You know where I stand in this debate. Why would I want to read about someone doing awesome stuff in a book when I can _be_ someone doing awesome stuff in a game?”

“Is that why you’re in this line of work?”

“No,” Alfred replied firmly, and his resolve seemed to surprise his handler. 

And then his handler smiled, and Alfred couldn’t believe this was all really happening. He was generally a pretty cheerful person, because the way he saw it, he had no reasons not to be. But right now, he was genuinely happy, and it was—

“DUDE, YOU’RE ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD!!!”

“What? No I’m– _Shit!_ ”

His handler swerved to the other side just in time to avoid a car that had turned onto the road in front of them and had not known quite how to respond to the unexpected oncoming traffic. 

“Stupid colonist wankers doing everything just to be bloody contrary,” his handler practically hissed. Then he took a breath to calm down, and began to look rather sheepish about the whole incident. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I haven’t done that in years, I must have been distracted.”

Alfred raised his eyebrows.

His handler lowered his. “And you must have a very high opinion of yourself.”

“I like to think if I believe in myself enough, I can do just about anything,” Alfred said. 

“I can’t even tell if that remark was sarcastic,” his handler sighed. “Anyway, we’re here.”

He pulled into a driveway and Alfred became aware of his surroundings once more. Somehow his handler had managed to find a quaint, Tudor-style cottage in the middle of Langley, Virginia.


	5. Tea

“Shall I make tea?”

Alfred continued to stare, taking in his handler’s sense of decor. He felt like he had just walked into a rustic cottage straight out of a fairytale, and it immediately filled him with a sense of warmth and homeyness. It was seriously messing with his image of his steely, acerbic handler.

Said handler’s tone became exponentially more steely and acerbic at having to repeat himself. “Agent, I asked if you want tea.”

“Huh? Oh, do you have coffee?”

His handler could have leveled cities with the look he gave Alfred. “I’m afraid not.”

“Tea it is then!” Alfred responded quickly. “Thanks.”

His handler nodded and left – in the direction of the kitchen, Alfred assumed. A few seconds later he heard a rather reluctant-sounding “Make yourself at home” called from the other room.

He appeared to be standing in the living room if the couch and television set were any indication, so as always, he did what his handler told him to do and flopped down on the couch and switched on the TV. Okay, so this may have been one of only a handful of times when he’d done _exactly_ what his handler had told him, but he had to improvise a lot on the ground, and besides, he had his own style that worked well for him.

He switched to the evening news. It was gloomy as usual, with a story about a dog saving a kitten stuck in a tree tacked on at the end. Ah, it was nice to have good old mindless American news again. Alfred was very well informed through other channels by the nature of his job, and he enjoyed turning on the news just to unwind and let his mind numb at the end of the day. 

“Why are you watching that rubbish?” 

Alfred didn’t know how long his handler had been standing in the doorway, but he thought it was rather unfair to use one’s stealth training in a non-professional setting. 

“You’re aware that half of the stories are engineered by us, and the other half are complete and utter bollocks,” his handler elaborated. 

“Of course I am,” Alfred said, sinking back into the couch contentedly. The upholstery smelled slightly sweet and slightly herbal – like its owner, Alfred noted. “I interned in the PR Department writing stories just like these when I was a teenager.”

“I would say that I worry for the fate of this country, except that the BBC has been going in much the same direction these past few decades. It’s your poor influence.”

“You mean America’s?”

“I’ve told you, they’re the same thing. We execute the will of the country.”

“Sometimes with actual executions,” Alfred couldn’t resist adding.

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Alfred said, noticing his handler’s darkened demeanor. “America’s gonna stay on top of the world until Judgement Day — or the alien invasion. But if we mobilize our military fast enough, we can totally blast those commie alien bastards out of the sky.”

His handler smiled in amusement. It was a start. 

“I’m pretty sure China is about to put an end to your brief tryst with the global throne.”

Alfred stuck his fingers in his ears and proceeded to hum “The Star-Spangled Banner” loudly. “We don’t talk about China,” he said, when he was certain his handler had given up the topic. 

“You have certainly made a compelling case for me never to broach the subject with you again,” his handler said slowly. 

Alfred grinned in satisfaction. “So how did a Brit make it into the CIA, anyway?”

His handler considered the question for a moment before answering. “I performed highly with MI6, and I believe the CIA is still holding out hope that I might leak valuable information about the inner workings of my former home government.”

“Whoa, you’re ex-MI6? How does the CIA know you’re not a double agent or something?”

“I have complete loyalty to my country,” his handler said, his face unreadable.

“Yeah, but which one?” Alfred asked. 

The man just smiled. 

Then an inhuman wail pierced the air, and Alfred went for his gun on instinct. 

“Christ, agent, that’s the tea kettle!” his handler yelled, jumping back from Alfred’s raised weapon.

“There is no way that’s a kitchen appliance!” Alfred yelled back over the violent screeching. 

His handler forced his arm down and he reluctantly holstered his gun before following his handler into the kitchen as the man had indicated. The noise had died down to an airy whistle by the time they got there, and it did, indeed, seem to be coming from the tea kettle on the stove. Huh.

“Now,” his handler exhaled as he pulled on an oven mitt, his heart rate obviously still elevated from Alfred pulling his gun, “how do you like your tea?”

Alfred realized he didn’t really know how to answer that question. “Black?” he hazarded.

“Suit yourself,” his handler said, filling a cup with tea and handing cup and saucer to Alfred. He poured copious amounts of cream and sugar into his own, stirred, and then proceeded to lick the spoon clean. Alfred found this rather distracting. 

The next thing he knew, a spoon had smacked him in the face.

“Ow,” he complained, rubbing the side of his nose, "That could have broken my glasses y'know." But his handler had already stormed into the next room.

Alfred picked up the spoon from the floor, dropped it into the sink, and followed to find him sitting at a small table staring pointedly out the window into the garden — and was that the hint of a blush? It might have also been from the hot tea he had started to drink way too soon. 

“Sorry,” Alfred said, surprisingly, feeling his own face begin to flush.

“Can’t you behave professionally for once in your life?” his handler griped into his tea. 

“Apparently not,” Alfred said, taking the other seat across from him. 

“I meant to ask you about those bandages you’ve got on,” his handler said, finally looking up after he’d composed his face into an impenetrable mask once more, and indicating the bandages wrapped around Alfred’s forearms. “You didn’t write in your mission report that you were injured, and if I wasn’t made acutely aware of your incessantly sunny disposition on a daily basis, I might think that my assignments had driven you to attempt suicide.”

Alfred had almost forgotten about the bandages, himself. “I was kinda embarrassed to put ‘cause of injury’ as ‘cooking accidents’ on an official form,” he said. “But those Italians do some crazy stuff in the kitchen.” 

“Ah yes, I’d forgotten you had to learn to cook professionally for your cover. Were you any good at it?”

“Are you kidding? I was frickin’ awesome!”

“Then you should probably cook dinner tonight,” his handler said. “No one seems to like my cooking.”


	6. Undercover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still T...right?

Alfred may have been showing off a little. Despite his handler’s limited supplies, he’d managed to whip up a pretty damn good baked ziti with herb-crusted chicken and zucchini, and lemon gelato with basil-clove cookies for desert. It was exceedingly difficult not to start shoveling food into his face before his handler had started eating, but it was worth it for the look in those serpentine eyes when he took his first bite. 

“Dear God, this is either heavenly or sinful, and I’m not sure I care which. My highest compliments to the chef.” 

Alfred did’t say that the meal was one of the simpler one’s he’d learned to make during his training.  Instead, he said, “You can call me Alfred, y’know.”

His handler actually flinched. “I really can’t. I would cite protocol, but you might start humming again.”

“Well, can I know your name at least? I’ve been calling you 'handler' in my head, and it’s weird now that I’ve cooked dinner for you and stuff.”

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly, though not without apology. “And I'll have you know before you start snooping–“

“Intelligence gathering,” Alfred corrected.

“–that I keep all of my personal documents very well secured.”

“Killjoy,” Alfred muttered. “Hey, how about I call you that?”

“No,” his handler said, with significantly less sympathy.

“Come on, if you don’t give me something better, I’m just gonna start calling you Limey.”

He blinked. “That’s…rather offensive.”

“Hardass?” 

“How is that less offensive?!”

Alfred was afraid his handler was about to throw another spoon at him. Or possibly a fork this time. “Okay, then…what’s your code name?” That, at least, he could work with. It was probably something cool, too, like—

“Langley.”

“Fuck.”

His handler looked smug. Alfred wanted to wipe that smirk off his face. Or kiss it off…

“Now, if you’ll let the issue rest, I’ve been curious about _your_ code name since you were assigned to me, though not quite curious enough to find out the answer to my question myself. I was hoping you’d be able to enlighten me.”

“Fine, shoot,” Alfred waved, defeated.

“Where are Eagles One through Four?”

Alfred shrugged. “Dunno. Probably dead or something.”

The man frowned. “You have been with the Agency long enough and performed highly enough to be offered at least a few promotions. Your bravery is admirable, but what kind of idiot thinks getting shot at all day is a good career move?”

“The heroic kind,” Alfred answered easily. “Besides, guys like me do all the real work around the Agency.”

“Oh really?” His handler raised an eyebrow. He pressed a button on the side of his watch and the wall panel behind him slid back to reveal a wall of screens, each currently displaying a live feed of an agent on a mission or a surveillance target. “Because the way I see it,” he held his arms out to indicate the screens behind him, “'guys like me' do all the real work, and 'guys like you' just pull the trigger.”

Okay, that was pretty cool. (And probably totally against protocol.) But he was still wrong! “I don’t _just_ kill people. You catch me on my bad days.”

His handler looked down at the table for a moment, and when he raised his eyes, he locked gazes with Alfred in a way that made Alfred suddenly, inexplicably sad. “Have you ever considered that it’s just the opposite?” he asked. “Have you ever considered that all of _my_ missions involve assassination?”

“I…no. Is that true?”

“I used to be a field agent like you, back with MI6,” he said, finally breaking eye contact. “I killed anyone I was ordered to, without question, and I did it very efficiently. But after a…difficult mission, I began to wonder if all of the people I had killed truly deserved to die. And I wasn’t certain of the answer. That’s why I did everything in my power to become a case officer, so that I could be certain, before I ordered an agent to kill for me.”

Alfred was speechless. Yeah, his handler looked like sex in a suit, but he’d never thought, inside, that the guy would be all that different from the rest of the bureaucrats with moral blinders on in the higher echelons of the CIA. Alfred had resolved early on never to accept a mission that he didn’t think was right, but, he realized, he had never refused one of his primary handler’s missions.  

“…You’ve made the right choices,” Alfred said, finally. “And despite what you may think from the way I act on missions…”

“Insubordinate?” his handler offered.

“Yeah, despite that, I’ve never questioned one of your kill orders. As I said, you’ve made the right choices.”

The amount of relief plain on his handler’s face made Alfred’s heart twist.

“Thank you,” he said, doing his best to recover a neutral tone and expression. “Now, can we—“

But before he could finish his sentence, and before Alfred could consider whether what he was about to do was really such a good idea, Alfred had rounded the table, locked both hands around the arm rests of his handler’s chair, and kissed him with all of the confused, pent-up emotion of the past twelve hours, and, now that Alfred thought about it, of the past three years. 

When some sense finally returned to Alfred and he realized what he’d done, he pulled away, overwhelmed and even more confused. His handler took the opportunity to shove Alfred off, and his lumbar curve hit the table rather sharply, causing him to wince. 

His handler stood, his green eyes flashing. “That was incredibly… _stupid_ ,” he growled breathily, and he pinned Alfred against the table and crashed their lips together again. 

Alfred really didn’t know what to think anymore, and as their hips ground together, he was quickly losing the higher brain functions to figure it out. All he could register was happiness and _heat_ , and that was good enough for him. 

He reciprocated with just as much enthusiasm, until they were both flushed and panting heavily. 

“I’d be fine doing it on the table,” he said, drinking in his handler’s flushed face, mussed hair and lust-darkened emerald eyes, and generally enjoying seeing him out of his prim-and-proper, professional element, “but we might break a few of your nice teacups in the process.”

“The bedroom’s upstairs,” his handler responded immediately. 

They made it, but it was one of the most difficult undertakings in their collective careers.

~

Waking up in his handler’s bed the next morning next to the man himself, still sleeping despite it being nearly eleven o’clock (Alfred took pride in that), Alfred realized that he had no regrets. Why would he? Last night was fucking amazing! Who knew the snooty, pencil-pushing bureaucrat had it in him? 

He stretched and yawned loudly, disturbing his bedmate, who sat up slowly and rubbed his eyes, only to glare at Alfred for interrupting his sleep. Alfred waited patiently for the other shoe to drop. It didn’t take long. 

His handler’s face went sheet-white, and then a furious red. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and when he opened it again Alfred kissed him. 

He gave in almost immediately, sighing into the kiss and wrapping his arms around Alfred’s neck.

“So…can I know your name now?” Alfred asked, after they’d paused for breath. 

“I suppose that’s only proper etiquette, isn’t it.”

Alfred scoffed. 

“It’s Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.”

Arthur. The name suited him. “Ha! I started guessing with the English kings, but of course it’d be the magic, fictional one!”

“King Arthur couldn’t do magic,” Arthur objected. “He just had a lot of magical assistance from Merlin.”

“Well I’m glad your name’s not Merlin, ‘cause that’d be kind of a weird thing to yell during sex.”

Arthur stared at him for a moment. Then, quite unexpectedly, he burst out laughing. 

Alfred nearly had a heart attack. 


	7. Subterfuge

Arthur was less upset with Alfred for the hour he’d let him sleep in 'til when Alfred informed him that all of the roads were closed due to the foot and a half of fresh snow they’d gotten overnight. Then Arthur was just upset.

“You lot get half a metre of snow, and the entire bloody colony–“

“state”

“–state shuts down. Really, how does anyone get anything done around here?”

“A lot of people work from home,” Alfred said, trying to get the man to stop pacing up and down the bedroom still half-naked, although he couldn't deny he was enjoying the view.

“I could work from home, except that you’re here, and anything you saw or heard would be a severe breach of confidentiality.”

“If you’re really that concerned about confidentiality,” Alfred said, “you could always handcuff me to the bed to make sure I don’t see anything I’m not supposed to.”

Arthur looked, for a moment, like he was actually entertaining the idea. 

“No, that’s no way to treat a guest. Besides, you’re trained to escape from handcuffs.”

Alfred shrugged. “Then I guess your work will have to wait.”

Arthur made a terrifying growling noise, and then he seemed to relax a little, resigned. “You’re right. Would you like breakfast?”

~

Arthur set the smoke alarm off when he burnt his scones, and Alfred ended up making a fritata for them instead. It turned out deliciously, but that didn’t seem to lighten Arthur’s mood any. So Alfred suggested what, in his experience, was a tried and true way of getting one’s mind off of something for a couple hours. And by that he meant a movie, of course. 

“A film?” Arthur looked intrigued. “What kind?”

Something like divine inspiration struck Alfred then. “OMG we have to watch _Mr. & Mrs. Smith_!”

“I…can’t say I’ve seen it,” Arthur said, eyeing Alfred skeptically. 

“You haven’t seen the inception of Brangelina, America’s perfect power couple?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “I am so glad you Americans haven’t been able to come up with a cutesy couple name for Prince William and Princess Kate.”

“It’s only a matter of time, dude!” Alfred said gleefully. “So you’re seriously telling me you’ve never seen this movie?” A mischievous glint shone in his sky blue eyes.

“Yes…”

“We’re watching it,” Alfred said, and before Arthur could object, Alfred had bounded down the hall to the living room and pulled up the title on Netflix. 

Arthur resigned himself to his fate and sat down next to Alfred on the couch. Alfred immediately scooted closer, and gave Arthur such a disarming smile that whatever sarcastic remark he’d been about to make died in his throat, and he put his arm around Alfred instead, a slight blush tinting his cheeks as he refused to meet Alfred’s eyes. 

“Just start the damned thing already,” he said.

“Is that an order?” Alfred asked.

“You’re the one who wanted to watch this film in the first place!” Arthur said, exasperated. “I don’t care one way or the other, but you’d very well better make up your mind…”

Arthur fell silent out of ingrained respect when the opening scene began to play. (Alfred had pressed Play midway through the warm-up of Arthur’s rant.) The steamy first encounter between Brad and Angelina’s characters got no reaction out of him. Which, Alfred could admit, made sense if he wasn’t into the ladies. But Alfred tried not to make assumptions about people – Arthur could be any number of things. He could even be straight, and Alfred could just be _that good_. Still, it was a little disappointing, because that was one of his favorite scenes. That, and the awesome explosions and gunfights later on. 

What did get a reaction out of Arthur, and one that did not disappoint, was when it was revealed that Mr. and Mrs. Smith were both secret agents. 

“You wanker – are you implying we act like a married couple?”

Alfred laughed. “A really hot married couple.”

“We met for the first time _yesterday_ ,” Arthur said, and then blushed. 

Alfred only laughed more. “But we’ve known each other for three years,” he said. “We just didn’t _really_ know each other until yesterday. Kind of like Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Except they really _did_ know each other all along.”

Arthur muttered something about subterfuge, and they continued watching. It wasn’t long before Arthur’s hand found its way into Alfred’s. It wasn’t much longer before they felt more comfortable sharing each other’s space, and Alfred had laid his head on Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur ran his fingers absentmindedly through Alfred’s hair. By the end of the movie, they were practically cuddling (though the fact that it was about five degrees too cold in Arthur’s house for the blizzard currently blasting everything outside with snow was a contributing factor). 

“So how’d you like it?” Alfred asked, looking up at Arthur as the credits began to roll. 

“It was utterly preposterous,” Arthur said. “…But I enjoyed it.”

Alfred grinned. “I had a feeling you might. Can I ask you a question? And don’t say I just did,”  Alfred preempted, knowing Arthur wouldn’t have been able to resist the opportunity to be snarky otherwise.

Arthur looked put-out. “Yes, you may.”

“Did you leave my mission report up on your screen yesterday on purpose, when you knew I would see it?”

“Well I’m glad you’re not entirely inept at your job,” Arthur said after a beat of thought. “I did. Although I did not intend for things to go quite this…far.”

“What did you intend?” Alfred asked.

“I was curious about you. I couldn’t get a read on what kind of person you were, which is something I’m not used to. I thought having the opportunity to speak with you face-to-face would help. I did not intend anything other than our initial conversation.”

Alfred always liked messing with Arthur’s plans. But he had to know, “Even though this isn’t what you intended, are you happy things turned out this way?”

“I…yes, Alfred. I am. But we’ve landed ourselves in a rather precarious position. You know we have to keep this part of our relationship a secret, don’t you? Luckily that’s something we’re both good at, but the consequences for this kind of conflict of interest are serious. At best, one of us could be reassigned, at worst, we could both be fired or face harsh disciplinary action.”

Alfred sighed. “Well there goes my theory about conflicts of interest.”

“Your theory?”

“That it would only be a conflict of interest if you weren’t interested.”

“That’s…not at all how it works. This is serious, Alfred. Since I am your direct superior, what we’re doing is equivalent to fraternisation.”

“Yeck, that just makes it sound like we’re brothers.”

“It’s a military term,” Arthur said, irritated. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. So that stuff applies to the CIA, too?”

“Of course. The chain of command is crucial, and while my agent’s wellbeing is certainly a priority, it cannot be my first priority. My first priority must be, as yours must be as well, the safety of the nation.”

Alfred frowned. “You’re right. This sucks.”

“I know. And what it means is, when I send you out in the field, I’m not going to treat you any differently just because we’ve slept together. As my agent, and a particularly unruly one at that, you still require strict discipline… Alfred, you’re not supposed to smile when I say that.”

“Sorry, it just sounded really hot.”

Arthur huffed an impressive sigh, like he was letting out pressurized steam. Alfred got a mental image of Arthur’s tea kettle, and had to stop himself from laughing. 

“I’ve ruined our professional relationship, haven’t I?”

“Don’t you mean _we’ve_ ruined our professional relationship? I was there too.”

“I am more than happy to assign you half of the blame.”

“I dunno,” Alfred said ponderously, “I think I did more than half the work.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Just what are you implying?”

“Well, I mean you were good and all, but—“

“If you finish that sentence I am going to shove a burnt scone down your throat.”

The storm lasted three days. The only way Arthur and Alfred avoided killing each other – or rather, the only way Alfred avoided bloody, violent death by Arthur's hand – was that they were able to take out their frustrations on each other in ways that were a lot more…fun.


	8. Different but the Same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to the readers who wanted a longer story, but I'd planned to keep this one short and sweet. I may continue Alfred and Arthur's adventures in another fic at some point if I'm inspired, but I hope you've enjoyed this story for what it is. Thanks for reading!

“Come in Eagle 5, do you read me?”

“I read you, Langley. Is this a secure channel?”

“Yes…”

“Whatcha wearin’?”

“A bloody sweater vest, now focus, agent!”

“You look really cute in sweater vests.”

“And you would look significantly less cute with a deviated septum. Are you at the site?”

“Yeah, I’m here. As soon as I see the van with all the guns and money, I’ll make my move.”

“Eagle 5.”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Do be careful.”

“Haha I’m always careful!”

“And don’t call me ‘babe’ _ever_ again.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t suit you. How about…crumpet?”

“Absolutely no—“

“I like that one!”

“Alfred, no—“

“Oh, that’s the van! Hang on a sec.”

*click - - click*

“YIPPIE KA-YAY MOTHA FUCKAS!!!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed my writing, you can commission a story from me here: http://urban-sorcerer.tumblr.com/commissions


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